


here's a truth (one of many that may have been)

by comefeedtherainn



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, allusions to self harm, one use of the f slur, richie tozier's abysmal mental health, triggers warnings include:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26059579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comefeedtherainn/pseuds/comefeedtherainn
Summary: Richie and Eddie Kaspbrak-Tozier have been married for fifteen years. They met in college, at a bar. Fell in love, made a life.In the summer of 2016, they both receive the same phone call from Mike Hanlon.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 185





	here's a truth (one of many that may have been)

**Summer 2016**

It happens on a Sunday afternoon.

Richie probably should have known it was going to be a rough day when a phone call from someone he doesn't even know wakes him ten minutes before his alarm is supposed to go off, or when he nearly drops his wedding ring down the sink drain as he's washing his face, or when he realizes that the milk has gone bad when he tries to get cereal, and also that he forgot to take out the garbage before the truck came, _fuck_. Richie huffs, flopping down on the couch with nothing but a pout and some shitty ass toast. Wheat, because his husband is Like That.

"Jesus, Rich, you'd think it was a shit pie."

Richie fixes Eddie with his deadliest glare as he takes a bite of toast through a grimace. "It has seeds on it."

"It's not fucking seeds, it's grain. If it were up to you we'd have Wonder Bread every day."

"Uh yeah, because I like to enjoy my life."

Eddie snorts, nudging him with a socked foot. "Quit bitching, already."

"Five more minutes."

"One."

"...nevermind, the moment's over."

"Well, thank fuck."

Eddie gets to his feet, tapping Richie's glasses down the bridge of his nose as he passes and snickering when Richie tries and fails to swat at him.

"Hey, come back, I demand cuddles," he calls after him.

"Cute, but let me do the dishes first."

"Meh."

His phone rings again while Eddie is gone, and this time he's awake and has his glasses on so he gets a look at the number and-

_207-159-4557  
_

_Derry, Maine._

Richie's stomach clenches, and a knot forms in his chest as he swipes to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Richie. It's Mike."

Richie frowns, even as his heart rate increases. "Mike who?"

"Mike Hanlon. From Derry."

All at once, the blood drains from Richie's face, sweat beading on his hairline and his stomach nearly falling out his ass. He stares into space, lips parted.

"Richie?"

"Uh, sorry. Mike, hi," he says, trying to make his voice stop shaking. He feels sick, petrified, but he isn't quite sure why, and his brain feels like it's going to explode as he remembers Derry all at once. His fucking hometown. And he remembers Mike, how the fuck could he have forgotten about Mike? There were others, too, his best friends, their faces melting back into existance - Beverly, Stan, Bill, Ben, and-

Oh, _fuck_.

"It's back," Mike continues, unaware of Richie's crisis. Or maybe, unaware of the extent of it. "We made a promise. You need to come back to Derry."

"Jesus."

"I've already called the others, they're coming, too," says Mike, his voice steady like he's rehearsed this. "Only one left after you is Eddie."

 **FUCK**.

"Uh. I would...hold off on that," Richie says numbly, eyes swiveling to the man in question as he shuffles back into the room. He blinks at whatever look is on Richie's face.

"What? Why?"

"Just. Uh. I'll. Call you back."

"Wait, Rich-"

He hangs up, dropping the phone onto the couch and staring at the far wall. 

"Who the hell was that?" Eddie asks, sitting beside him with a deep frown. "You're sheet white, Rich."

Richie's making a beeline for the bathroom before he can answer, and barely makes it into the toilet as he pukes up all of the shitty toast. He hears Eddie hurrying after him, sitting on the floor a couple feet away because he's neurotic, not touching him because Richie's neurotic, and they're both silent for a bit as Richie catches his breath. The cold tile digs into Richie's knees but he doesn't sit up.

"Richie," Eddie ventures quietly.

Richie opens his eyes, finally pushing himself back to rest against the wall. "It was Mike Hanlon."

"Who's that?"

Richie can't look at him. "From Derry."

It's silent for nearly a full minute, and Richie knows they're in for it when Eddie's breath starts to pick up speed.

"What the fuck?"

"Eds-"

"No, what the fuck?!" Eddie squawks, scrambling to his feet and bumping his shoulder on the door handle, sending it ricocheting against the wall. "What the fuck?!"

"It's okay," Richie tries to soothe, getting up and following him as he backs out of the room, his eyes wide. He reaches out even though his own hands are shaking visibly, but Eddie ducks away from his touch.

"Fuck! You - we - what -" Eddie's pats around his pockets, searching for an inhaler he hasn't had in ages. He presses a palm to his chest instead, leaning back against the wall. "Can't fucking breathe."

Richie grabs onto his arms, holding on tight when he tries to pull away. It stops his own hands from shaking, to have them busy. "You can. You can breathe," he says as calmly as he can. "It's gonna be okay, Eds. Easy."

"Why didn't I remember?" Eddie croaks, fully hyperventilating by now. "Why didn't I remember?!"

Richie pulls him close and squeezes him as hard as he can. It only takes a moment or two for Eddie to practically go limp, save for his arms finally clutching at Richie as he makes fists in the back of his shirt. They sink to sit on the ground, instead, and Richie pulls Eddie fully into his lap, cradling him with every one of his limbs. For a while they just hold on, Eddie so tightly he digs his nails into Richie's shoulder blades, Richie rocking them a bit because he can't think what else to do. Eventually Eddie's grip loosens, and while Richie isn't quite ready he lets go, too. 

"I don't understand," Eddie murmurs.

"Me neither," says Richie. "Seems like the only way we find out is if we go back to Derry."

Eddie laughs harshly, without humor, and runs his hands through his hair. "I didn't even fucking remember that I - we! - grew up there until fucking five minutes ago."

"Same hat, Eds."

Eddie fixes him with a hard look. "You're being way too nonchalant about this."

"I am not," Richie lies. "What do you want me to do?"

"Stop being fucking-" Eddie swats his chest, kind of hard, ow, "-stupid! Have a feeling that's not horny for hungry for ten fucking seconds!"

"Fuck's sake, Eddie, you want me to have a mental breakdown about it?"

"You just fucking threw up!"

"Fuck this," Richie snaps, getting to his feet. "Absolutely fuck this, never mind. We're not fucking going."

He stalks down the hall, knowing as he does it that he is never allowed to make dramatic exists, those are Eddie's thing, and huffs when he hears angry footsteps behind him. 

"Stop walking away, Rich, we're not done."

"You may not be done, but I'm way over this shit."

"Will you fucking stop?!"

"No!" Richie whirls, his heart racing so fast he's pretty sure it'll burst out of his chest any second. "I don't know what the fuck is happening. I don't know why I didn't remember Derry, or Mike, or _you_ , until today but absolutely _fuck this_! I'm blocking that number, we'll fucking move if we have to, but whatever is going on I don't want anything to do with it."

"Well I don't think just fucking moving away is going to change what just happened," Eddie snaps, his eyes shining. Richie groans.

"Fuck, don't cry," he pleads, rubbing his face. "Come on, Eds. I hate it."

"I can't fucking help it!" Eddie snips, rubbing his eyes dry with the heels of his palms. "Fuck you."

Richie can't think of anything else to say, and apparently neither can Eddie for a minute or two. They both get control of their breathing, in that time, Eddie wiping away more tears and pursing his lips so hard they're white, and Richie's thoughts become more organized as he allows himself to think them, one at a time.

"You're right," he says eventually, voice softer. "We can't run away."

Eddie looks at him, still tense but nodding slowly. "It's not gonna make sense unless we go. The usual rules for when we go somewhere? If it sucks, we'll bug out early."

Richie snorts, taking a shuddering breath and wiping sweat from his upper lip. 

"Right. Sure. Okay."

* * *

"I don't wanna be here."

"Neither do I," Richie says, staring out the windowshield at the Derry Town house, the lights on inside and indicating that at least one of their recently-remembered childhood friends has arrived. "But we're here. Might as well make it worth our while."

Eddie lets out a shaky breath, the corners of his mouth turned down and his forehead crinkled with stress. "Why am I so fucking scared?"

"I don't know."

"Jesus. Fuck, fine, let's go in."

"Okay."

It's raining, and Richie pulls his jacket over his head before noticing Eddie is holding up an umbrella with a pointed look. He snorts, stepping under it and nudging him affectionately.

"'least one of us has his shit together."

"Well we both know that's a lie," Eddie scoffs as they walk up the drive. "Neither of us has our shit together, ever."

The front door is open, so Richie pushes, stepping slowly inside like the place might be boobytrapped. 

"Uh. Hello?"

Eddie shakes rain water off of the umbrella as they wait in the tense silence, and both of them tense as footsteps sound on the landing overhead. Around the corner comes none other than Beverly Marsh, her smile wide, if a little uncertain, when she sees them. They sort of stare at each other for a second, no one sure what to say. 

"Well," Richie says finally, "You look amazing. What the fuck happened to me?"

Bev laughs, loudly, and hurries the rest of the way down the stairs before wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight hug. 

"Hey, Richie."

"Hey," Richie smiles, hugging her firmly around her waist. He'd only remembered her in the past 24 hours, but his heart warms like hugging Bev is a safe place. Slowly, he remembers that it was, actually, at a time when he hated himself but he didn't really understand why, yet, when things that made all the sense in the world to him were confusing or infuriating for others. When brushing hands with Eddie Kaspbrak had made his chest do funny things, so he slapped him over the head and called him 'fucknut' to cover it up.

Jesus.

"Eddie," Bev grins, hugging him, too. "You guys look so great. And what great timing, you arrived together."

"Uh, yeah," says Richie, glancing at Eddie. "We came together. We're uh, married."

Her jaw drops, though the corners are still lifted. "No way."

"Yep."

"That's so amazing! So you - did you not forget?"

Richie grimaces. "No, we uh...definitely did."

"...oh."

"Yeah."

Before Bev can figure out what the fuck to say to that, as if there is anything, another set of footsteps sounds on the stairs, Mike Hanlon appearing a moment later. His smile is different, though still gentle - doesn't quite meet his eyes, which are tired and a bit sad. Richie feels for him, having stayed in Derry all this time. Even though he's not sure why the place makes him want to fucking vomit, yet, he knows that it does. And that's enough to feel for Mikey.

"Hey, Richie, Eddie," he greets, looking breathless and unsure. Maybe he hadn't expected them to come. To be fair, they almost hadn't. 

Right behind him comes Bill Denbrough, smiling in his understated way. Richie takes a little comfort in the fact that at least he isn't the only one who kinda looks like shit. It's nice to see him, though. Comforting, he remembers. Bill was always a steady presence, even when he was being a fucking idiot. He and Mike are standing pretty close, their elbows nearly brushing, but Richie puts the thought to the back of his mind - doesn't matter. Not his business.

It seems that Richie going slower than necessary on the highway in order to stall ended up with he and Eds being the last to arrive - Ben comes around the corner, too, as Mike and Bill are giving out tight hugs. He looks...fucking sexy. What the fuck?

"What the fuck?" Richie decides to say outloud.

Ben blinks at him, then snorts. "Shut up," he says, before taking the stairs down two at a time to give Richie a certified bear hug. He actually wheezes a little.

"Dude, you got hot! What the fuck happened?"

"Beep beep, Rich," Ben smirks, clapping his back a little too hard. 

Beep beep?

 _Oh._

Richie laughs shortly at the memory.

"Right."

"Did everyone get here before us?" Eddie asks, blowing a curl off his forehead that got dislodged by Ben's strong man hug. 

Bev shakes her head. "We're just waiting on Stan."

"Oh, right, Stan!"

"He said he would be arriving at least half an hour ago, when I called," Mike says, glancing at the old grandfather clock sitting nearr the stairs. "Hope he didn't get caught in traffic; that storm is rough."

Richie frowns, unease settling in his gut, then nearly pisses his pants when the front door swings open. In stumbles a tall man with dark, curly hair soaked with rain. He shakes it off like a dog, and blinks when he sees six pairs of eyes on him.

"Um. Hey."

"Stan!"

Richie would never admit it out loud, but his heart leaps at the sight of Stanley Uris. He loved all of the Losers, still does even after all the time and distance and forgetting, he realizes. Stan, though, Stan was always special. Ben was nice, but Richie had had a hard time getting real close to him because he was always scared he'd hurt his feelings with his mean jokes. Bill was steady but he didn't really let Richie complain when he wanted to complain - he'd try to fix it, solve it, and sometimes Richie didn't want to fix it right then. Mike was kind but he couldn't really keep up with Richie's acerbic sense of humor. Bev was safe, but she dealt with so much shit Richie had tended to bottle his own up to save her the trouble. Eddie had made his heart do fucking backflips, so half the time Richie was busy trying to remember how to breathe around him. Stan could take the insults and hurl them back, knew how to laugh at himself and make Richie do it too, knew when to listen and when to help and when to force Richie to accept a hug even when he said he didn't want one. 

Stan was the best.

"Good to see you, man," he says, firmly squeezing and kind of awkwardly shaking Stan's shoulder, because what the fuck is a feeling and what does one do with it when they have one? "You look great."

"Hey, Richie," Stan grins, raising an eyebrow at the shoulder shaking. "See you're still a fucking weirdo."

Richie laughs, loudly. "Yep."

"Let the man come inside!" Bev calls over the din of overlapping voices. "Stan, come upstairs, there's a couple more rooms open. And then - I say we check out that fucking bar."

* * *

The bar in question is, in fact, fully stocked and inside the house itself. Richie's extremely thankful for this, as he and Eddie stopped going out about five years ago or so and it has been fucking delectable to wear no pants every fucking day when he's not on tour and live on the couch in front of his PS4. Getting drunk with childhoodfriends, he figures, is about as great as that. They've been at it for nearly half an hour, now, drinking quickly due to the weird anxiety they're all feeling and avoiding talking about. Therefore, there's a pleasant buzz going around the room, and Richie knows he's started to get loud and a little obnoxious but can't seem to give a shit.

"So, wait," says Stan, a few shots in and loosened up considerably. "You two got married?!"

"Sure did," says Eddie, smiling his crinkly smile. His shoulders are away from his ears, the lines in his forehead relaxed. It's a rare sight, and one that makes Richie warm and fuzzy to see.

"When?!"

Richie shrugs, glancing at Eddie. "Depends. According to the government, in 2013. But we've been together for like...fifteen years?"

"Yes. Fifteen and a half, roughly."

"Can I just say I called that?" says Bev, grinning ear to ear. Her cheeks are a bit pink from the generously full vodka shots Richie had provided to her. "Like, junior year I called that."

"Oh, fuck off," Richie scoffs, rolling his eyes. "You did not."

"Did too!" she cries. "You were so adorable, it was a little pathetic. But mostly adorable."

"So how did you two meet...again?" asks Bill, one of his eyes already starting to close which meant he was getting hammered already. 

"At a bar," says Eddie. "He was in New York for a gig and I bought him a drink. Had no idea who he was. Which...I guess is a lot heavier than I thought."

There's an awkard pause as the elephant in the room rears it's head. Still, though, no one wants to talk to it, quite yet.

"What about everyone else?" 

"Besides Stan, who was already talking about his wife before he made it up the fucking stairs," Bill smirks.

Stan throws his hands up, though he grins at the ribbing. It's familiar, Richie muses. Stan was always a good sport. Gave as good as he took. He was fun.

"So I like my wife, sue me," he smirks, rolling his eyes as he pours everyone wtih an empty glass another shot. "Bet the rest of you are living alone, subsisting on ramen noodles and cheap beer."

"Add pizza delivery to the mix and yeah, that sounds about right," says Ben, grinning when the others cackle noisily. 

"Bev? You livin' the bachelorette life?"

Beverly smiles into her glass. "No, actually. My wife is waiting for me at home."

Richie nearly gets to his feet in his excitement. "You have a WIFE?!"

Bev laughs at him, blinking bemusedly. "Yeah. Her name is Kay."

"Holy FUCK."

"He means congrats," Eddie says dryly, the corner of his mouth quirking. 

"We all knew Bev would be married, come on," Bill snorts, clapping her shoulder. "Someone was bound to snatch her up."

Bev smirks, nudging him and laughing at how he stumbles unsteadily. "You alright, there, Denbrough?"

"All good. M'great."

"Uh huh."

Eventually it grows late, or rather, early. They sit all in a circle, now, spread out on the carpet and leaning on each other or on furniture or on walls. It's nice, it's familiar and comfortable, but now the elephant has started to roar, and Richie has to speak.

"You know what's weird?" he says. "When Mike called me I threw up. Like, I got nervous and sick and I threw up." He flushes a little when everyone just stares at him. "I mean. I feel fine now. I feel really good and relieved to be here, with you guys." Too honest. He downs the rest of his drink to occupy his mouth.

"When Mike called me, I burned a piece of my hair off with a curling iron," says Bev. 

"I had a panic attack," says Eddie, quietly. "It was...it was all of the memories. And Richie. I - I didn't remember Richie. Why...?"

"Fear," Mike says quietly. He's been largely quiet the whole night, smiling but only understatedly, leaning back against a wall and seemingly content to just listen and watch. "It was fear, what you felt."

It's quiet for a moment, as they all just look at each other.

"Mike," Bill says slowly. "You said you needed our help with something. What was that?"

Mike just looks back at him, his mouth a grim line, and Richie's heart practically falls out his ass.

Oh, the fucking clown.

* * *

"We weren't all together. Not that whole summer."

Mike nods, exchanging a significant look with Bill (which is apparently going to be a Thing with them, now). The seven of them are standing in the foyer, full of caffeine and nervous energy from a breakfast they'd cooked together in an attempt to pretend what's happening isn't actually happening. To pretend they're just best friends all coming together for an annual visit. Killer clowns can't get you when you're eating pancakes, right? 

"Exactly. We need to gather our artifacts, and face It, individually, " says Mke.

"I'm not going anywhere without Eddie," Richie says instantly. He sets his jaw when Mike opens his mouth. "No. Forget it."

"Richie, come on," Mike says gently. "I know it's hard, but this is the only way this is going to work."

"I said no. Figure something else out."

"Rich," Eddie says gently, his hand cold as he squeezes Richie's. "It's okay."

Richie's chest tightens. "Uh, no it fucking isn't. Are you insane, we'll be picked off like it's nothing if we separate! And I'm not - I need - me and you are staying together."

"And what if we do it this way, and then we fuck it up for everyone else?" Eddie says, his brows down low over his eyes. "Then it's all for nothing."

Richie opens his mouth, this closes it again and runs both hands through his hair. "Fuck, Eds."

Long fingers curl around his wrists and gently pull them back down, untangling where he'd made fists in the strands and squeezing a bit. 

"It's gonna be okay," Eddie says again, even though his eyes are wide and his hands are cold as ice - they're always freezing when he's nervous. "We can do this, right?"

Richie swallows around his dry throat. "Sure. Totally."

Eddie kisses him briefly. They leave one by one, and Richie resists the urge to sprint after his husband as he disappears behind the door.

* * *

Something in Richie's chest aches as his eyes slide over the faded sign, the old arcade long abandoned with the windows broken in and shit all over the floor. It's padlocked, unnecessarily, as he can just climb in through the window, but it's weird all the same. He'd obviously known he was into games as a kid, kept up that interest right into his fucking forties, but he'd forgotten all about this place. Games were an escape, back then. An escape from the world, an escape from himself. The arcade was somewhere to come out of the rain, where he was good at something. Where his name was at the top of a list of high scores. Or, "ASS" was, anyway. It was a place where he won, and won often. The only place. He runs his palm over one of the old machines left behind, brushing away dust.

"The fuck you doing here, old man?"

Richie blinks, looking over his shoulder, and stares with his mouth a perfect 'o' at Richie Tozier, age fourteen. Looking like a goddamn goon, as usual, his eyes four sizes too big and his garrish, hand-me-down shirt hanging off of his shoulders.

"Uh."

"Take a picture and it'll last longer, faggot," Young Richie snorts.

Richie clenches his jaw. He knows that sloppy bitch's tricks, by now, but it never stops making him fucking sick. "Don't say that kind of shit."

"Why? You gonna cry?"

"Because it hurts our feelings."

Young Richie scoffs, his shoulders bunching up near his ears, bravado faltering. "Whatever. What am I, a four year old girl?"

"No. You're a shithead," Richie snorts, shaking his head. He frowns, taking in the gangly kid in the obnoxious shirt, his cuticles red from being chewed on. "But you're gonna be okay."

Young Richie's face scrunches up, like he'd just said something disgusting. "What?"

"I said you're gonna be okay," Richie repeats firmly. "Not right away. Not for a while. But you'll be alright."

"Shut up," Young Richie snaps, his eyes flashing, literally, and fear clenches Richie's heart. He pushes forward anyway.

"You're not fucked up," he continues. "There's nothing wrong with you. Other than your shitty Voices - practice those, by the way."

"Shut up!"

"You're not fucked up," Richie repeats, advancing slowly forward even as his hands begin to shake. The wind outside is whistling through the window, picking up some of the debris off of the floor. "People love you. For some reason. Eddie loves you, isn't that fucking wild?"

"FUCK YOU!"

"We're not who we're mad at!" Richie continues, raising his voice. "You're not mad at me! I'm not mad at you! We're mad at _them_!"

"SHUT _**UP**_!" Young Richie's voice has become distorted, almost as if it isn't one but many, growls and shrieks all blended into a horrible cacophony. The wind has picked up inside the arcade, now howling and blowing the debris strewn across the floor until it is encircling them both, their hair and clothing whipping around with the strength of it. " _ **SHUT THE FUCK UP**_!"

" _You_ shut up!" Richie shouts back, and it's juvenile, but he thinks it's what he always needed to hear, really. "Stop fucking talking long enough to think about shit! And stop fucking hurting yourself!"

His mind can't comprehend the burst of red until it's already happened - a sudden rush of blood, spewing from underneath the cuffs of Young Richie's garrish shirt like the breaking of a dam. Richie backs away, avoiding the pool that begins to form on the floor and the flecks that dot the walls and the old games not valuable enough to be rescued. Young Richie is screaming, and then roaring, vibrating from head to toe as his wrists continue to bleed and his eyes glow bright like a sun. His skin begins to shrivel, like a fruit left to dry, until he's nothing but a child-sized raisin. He crumples, then, a motionless pile of gore, drained skin, and ugly old clothes. 

Richie stares at the mass for a long time, swallowing around his dry throat and expecting it to move again. Eventually, he relaxes just enough to inch toward one of the blood-spattered machines. A token lies in the repository, probably rejected for being dinged up, and he brushes blood off of it with his sleeve. With shaky fingers, he sticks it in his pocket, setting his jaw and turning on his heel before marching out of the arcade. 

* * *

"Eddie? What happened?"

"Nothing. Everything's fine."

Richie looks up from where he had been packing he and Eddie's suitcase, frowning. Quick, agitated footsteps approach their room, and his husband comes bursting through the door seconds later. He is covered in...something. Black, wet something. His eyes are wide, his shoulders tense and hands clenched. He pauses in the doorway, gaze flitting between Richie's face and the half-packed suitcases on the bed.

"The fuck happened to you?" Richie asks.

"What are you doing?" Eddie says at the same time.

Richie huffs through his nose, shoving another unfolded shirt into the suitcase. 

"I'm getting us packed, is what I'm doing .We're fucking leaving."

"Rich-"

"Nope," Richie interjects sharply. "Don't even try to tell me you wanna stay, I know something fucked up happened to you just now. What happened?"

Eddie shuts down again, expression going carefully blank. "Nothing."

"Nothing, right," Richie scoffs. "We're leaving. Fuck this."

"We can't," Eddie argues, even though his voice is shaky and weak. "It won't work without all of us."

"I don't fucking care," Richie says, and it makes his heart race and his fingertips tingle to admit it outloud, even to the person he trusts more than anyone else on Earth. "I don't care. I care about you, and I care about living. This shit? We escaped this shit. And I can't be fucked with a promise I made when I was a stupid ass kid who didn't know shit from shit. Pack a fucking bag, we're leaving."

Eddie's jaw clenches, his brow furrows, in that way that lets Richie know he's in for a fight. And a long one, at that.

"I'm not going," he says.

"Yes. You are."

"You gonna make me?"

"I could carry you over my shoulder and you know it."

"You try it and I'll kick you straight in the dick."

Richie huffs through his nose, pursing his lips.

"Eds. I'm fucking serious. Pack your shit, I'm not keeping you in this town another second."

"Fuck you," Eddie replies, stalking into the bathroom. "You go if you want." The door slams behind him.

They hadn't brought much, having only expected to stay for a couple of days. Richie reaches for the Ziploc he'd shoved his and Eddie's pills into, for fun things from arthritis to anxiety, then hesitates. 

_Eddie needs those,_ his shoulder angel says. _You should leave them behind, just in case._

 _But I can't leave without him,_ Richie replies. _I could never do that._

_Then take them. It'll force him to come with you._

_I can't do that either, that's fucked up._

_Well. Then I guess you're screwed._

Richie groans, chucking the pills back onto the bed and abandoning his packing, as well. He stalks out onto the landing, closing the bedroom door behind him maybe a bit too hard, and stomps down the stairs. He takes an inane, childish moment to triumph in the one and only dramatic exit he'll be allowed to make in his entire marriage, before his feet carry him to the bar. He hunts around for the fanciest bottle of bourbon he can find before popping off the top and filling a glass nearly to the brim. He never claimed to be classy. He downs half in one gulp.

He folds his arms on the bar and leans on it, closing his tired eyes and taking a few deep breaths. It's never helped very much for the general anxiety, but he has staved off a puke or two with the method, so he figures it's worth his time. Once the nausea has settled, he focuses on his heart, which still feels like it's about to bust out of him and do a fucking tap dance on the counter. Eds does this weird thing where he counts, or whatever, so he tries that, but he mostly feels like that shit in cartoons where you count sheep to try and fall asleep. Never works in real life. He's unsure he'll ever sleep again anyway, after this afternoon, so he stops that, too, feeling like a jackass.

"Rich?"

Richie opens his eyes to Beverly, peering around the corner at him. She looks shaken, a little sweaty, her cheeks still flushed from the heat (or maybe running). Richie hadn't even heard the front door.

"Hey," he replies, trying to keep his voice as even as possible.

"Are you okay?" He gives her a brief look, and she nods. "Fair. How bad are you, then?"

"Mmm, running a solid 8.5 on the About to Lose My Shit scale, approaching 9," Richie says through a clenched jaw, taking another long drink and pulling a face as it burns on the way down.

"Same." Bev pulls out one of the bar stools, taking a seat and plucking one of the glasses from the corner of the counter. "Pour me whatever you've got in yours."

"You wouldn't like it, it's bourbon."

"And how would you know what I like to drink?"

"I dunno. It's strong."

"Yeah well, I like bourbon and you don't drink exclusively strawberry margaritas. We're all breaking stereotypes today, Tozier, now fill the glass."

Richie snickers, the knot in his chest loosened a little as he does as the lady asks. "Yes ma'am."

They drink together in silence for a bit, Richie glad when he starts to feel a bit of a buzz and he can finally fucking relax. He glances up in the vague direction of he and Eddie's room, wondering how long the standoff will last.

"What's up?"

His eyes swivel toward Bev again, and he shrugs. "Fighting with Eddie. Kind of."

"You want to leave."

Richie chews the inside of his lip. "I want to get him out of here."

Bev gives him a look that has his face burning. "You can't Richie. We need everyone, or it won't work."

The grinding of his teeth is noisy in the quiet. "Tell me something new, Bev. I just don't want me or my husband to die, so I'd like to just get us the fuck out of here and take our chances."

"What about us?" Bev asks, her voice getting a bit more weak, a bit more desperate. It hurts Richie's chest to hear it. "You can't leave us to face It alone. I know you, you wouldn't."

"You don't know me," Richie retorts, something about anyone thinking he's a decent person thoroughly disgusting him in that moment. "You knew me. When I was a dumbass kid who couldn't shut up. Now I'm a dumbass adult who can't shut up but at least has something fucking self-preservation. I left this shit behind. I'll leave it behind again."

"Rich-"

"RICHIE!"

The empty bourbon glass smashes on the floor, knocked aside by Richie's elbow as he sprints into the foyer so quickly he almost eats shit. He hauls ass up the stairs at a speed a man his age will end up regretting later, shouting "Eddie! Eddie!"

He halts on the landing when Eddie comes into view, his eyes wide and his entire body stiff as a board as he inches down the stairs. It takes another moment, and Bev screaming, for Richie to process that he's bleeding from a wound in his cheek. He opens his mouth to speak, and more blood pours out, and Richie vaguely wonders how he isn't gagging. He normally hates blood, and certainly wouldn't want to be fucking _drinking_ it.

"Bowers is in my room," Eddie says, very calmly, and Richie blinks hard at him. 

"Bow-like, Henry fucking Bowers?"

"Mhm."

"Christ. Stay here."

With a bravery he only really finds when Eddie's having a meltdown (one of them needs to have their shit together; typically they take turns) Richie marches up the rest of the stairs, hesitating before kicking open the door to their room. He tenses, but it's empty, the bathroom door ajar on the far side of the room. He steps around the droplets of blood Eddie left behind on the carpet, pausing in the doorway when he finds more blood on the white bathroom tile , the shower curtain ripped up and stained red and lying haphazard on the floor. The window is open, and he peers out of it, his stomach turning to ice when he sees a guy who can be none other than Henry Bowers -he'd know that shitty ass mullet anywhere. Bowers is standing in the parking lot, a knife in his chest, and glancing up at Richie with a steadily growing grin. He pulls the knife out, slowly, as if it doesn't hurt him at all, and sticks it in his pocket before scampering off. 

Richie watches him go, swallowing around his dry throat and wondering, not for the first time, if Bowers is all human.

* * *

"Don't bitch, just lean your head over."

"I don't - I can't - it hurts my neck!"

"It's gonna be two seconds while I rinse the cut, Eds, will you just fucking do it?"

Eddie grumbles, lowering himself to his knees with a grimace - Richie can agree with that, they're digging into his shitty old man knees, too - and grips the edge of the tub. Richie has since cleaned up the blood as best he can, and disposed of the shower curtain. The faucet is running semi-warm, the water crashing noisily as it falls. Carefully, Eddie leans over, and Richie guides him until his face is under the flow, which begins to slowly wash the blood away. He uses his fingers to gently rub at the bits that dried, frowning when the laceration is clean and he can see it more clearly. A clean cut, it looks like, but all the way through. Will definitely need stitches. Christ, it's a miracle he didn't get his tonge or his throat sliced open. Richie shuts down that train of thought before he can shove Eddie into the car and drive him away, protests or no.

He's decided on a change of heart. Well, more like his conscience decided to wake up for it's annual Be A Good Person stint; his least favorite tradition. So he's not going to run away, and he's not going to make Eddie run away, as much as he may want both of those things very much. The water is pink as it swirls down the drain, Eddie's blood staining the tub, and Richie pulls him back up. Eddie takes the first opportunity to get off his knees and shifts to sit on his ass instead, back resting on the wall as Richie grabs a towel and begins to pat his face dry. A bit of water has slid down his neck and dampened the collar of his shirt, and Richie makes a half-ass attempt at drying that, too.

"You're gonna need to get stitches," he says for no reason, because they both know that. "The first aid kit has bandaids and gauze, so...we'll just do that for now."

"Okay."

Richie retrieves the box of bandaids from the first aid kit lying open on the floor beside them, popping it open and taking out a handful. Wound care isn't exactly in a comedian's job description, but fuck it, he muses, peeling open the first and frowning at the wound as he makes a plan of action. Delicately, he holds the wound closed, and does his fucking best to tape the thing closed with an ungodly amount of bandaids. One that's done, and they seem to be holding, he tops it off with a patch of gauze. He tries to be careful, knowing about himself that he does things quickly and impatiently. Sometimes those things hurt, according to husband feedback. In a way, he guesses that dressing a wound is kind of like foreplay? If only in the way that it takes a long time and throws into sharp relief just how clumsy his fingers are.

"Done."

He realizes Eddie has been watching him the entire time he was working, and meets his eyes as he waits for him to say whatever he's going to say. 

"What the fuck are we doing here, Rich?"

Richie snorts, shaking his head. "That's a good fucking question, babe."

Eddie sighs through his nose, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the wall. It makes his throat more pronounced, and Richie admires it just for something to do that doesn't involve running his mouth.

"I'm scared."

Richie nods. "Yeah. Me too."

More quiet, for a bit. "How are we even gonna do this?"

"The Native American shit that Mike's got, I guess."

"No, I mean...how the fuck are we gonna _do_ this? Face It? I'm a pussy."

Richie scoffs, giving him a look. "No you're not."

"Dude."

" _Dude_ ," he replies, in as gentle a mocking tone as he is capable of. "You're not a pussy. Being afraid doesn't make you a pussy."

"No, but being a scared little bitch who doesn't do shit about what they're scared of does."

"Hey." Richie takes Eddie's jaw into his hands, not wanting to hurt his cheek. "Look at me. You've done plenty to face the shit you're scared of. Setting aside the fact that you faced down a demon clown when you were a fuckin' preteen. You got out of your hometown. You got away from your mom, made your own life. You stopped taking all those bullshit meds, you haven't refilled your fucking inhaler in like, eight years. Eds. You're braver than you think."

Eddie sighs quietly, the corner of his mouth quirking. "Thanks, Rich."

Richie curls his finger under his chin, nudging playfully. "Anything for you, doll face."

"Ugh."

"You love it."

"I wish I didn't."

* * *

Bill Denbrough continues to prove himself to be the Loser with the fewest number of brain cells. Richie is tense as he drives the rest of them to Neibolt house, trying to reach it before Bill can throw himself into danger without a plan and without any backup. And without the sorry assholes who were supposed to stick together to make this fucking thing work, for fuck's _sake_ , Denbrough. He must be seething audibly, because Eddie's hand wraps just above his knee and squeezes. He nudges it away, only so he can grab it tightly, lacing up their fingers and squeezing as he drives. 

They arrive to find Bill approaching the house like going to the gallows,. Or a book signing. They're equally dire for him, Richie has gathered. He skids the car to a stop, putting it in park and smelling burnt rubber as he clambers out with the others, jogging to intercept their stupid friend (just like the old days). Mike reaches him first, grabbing onto his elbow and holding him fast as the two of them have a tense conversation Richie can't quite hear. Eddie is still holding tightly to his hand, and he doesn't make him let go as they step into the shadow of Neibolt house. He could probably think more poetic things, like "stepping into the shadow of their unresolved trauma," but he might honestly throw up from the pretentiousness of it all, so he doesn't. As much as Nicholas Sparks would argue, suffering isn't pretty and it isn't poetic. In Richie's experience, it involves evil clowns and your husband getting stabbed in the face, both of which are extremely gross.

When they enter Neibolt house, they enter together, a row of Derry ducklings. _Just like the old days_ , Richie muses once more, taking the first step inside with his husband on his heels.

* * *

Richie feels a bit silly about his artifact - a token from the shitty arcade he'd spent so many sweltering summer days inside. The others seem to have brought fucking metaphors incarnate to sacrifice in Mike's ritual. Or, well, it's not really Mike's ritual. Whatever. It feels a bit silly to toss a token in alongside the toy boat Bill made with his murdered baby brother, is the point.

"You brought a fucking coin?"

Richie gives his husband the dryest look he can manage. "Yeah."

"That's not gonna fucking burn."

"Shut the fuck up," he scoffs. "What did you bring?"

Eddie pauses, glancing around at the others, before digging into his pocket. He pulls out a tiny piece of string, tied in a slender circle.

"You made me this. In highschool," Eddie says to the bowl of mementos. Richie knows he's talking to him, because the memories come slamming into his brain like a semi truck and steal his breath. "You called it a promise ring. Because you're a fucking sappy idiot. And I kept it under my bed, with the go-bag I never used. It made me feel brave, when things were bad."

Richie swallows thickly as he watches Eddie gently place the makeshift ring alongside the other artifacts, pressing up against Richie's token.

"Well," he says roughly, clearing his throat. "Now I feel extra dumb for mine."

Eddie snorts and wraps an arm around his waist as Richie winds one around his shoulders. He leans on him firmly, both of them watching as Mike sets the artifacts aflame.

Richie crosses his fingers.

* * *

_The deadlights flash, and Richie is in another place._

_His vision clears and there is Ben, hanging from his neck with glassy eyes. The deadlights flash and there is Bill, a bleeding hole in his forehead, the deadlights flash and there is Mike, his body a mangled, crumpled heap on a pitch black street. The deadlights flash and there is Bev, a half-empty bottle of pills strewn on the floor beside her. The deadlights flash and there is Stan, slumped over the edge of a bathtub full of pink water, his wrists bleeding and dripping down onto the floor. The deadlights flash and there is Eddie, fucking Eddie, fuck, his face pale and his eyes vacant and still damp with frightened tears._

_The deadlights flash and there is himself, glasses askew where they sit on the bridge of his nose, one lens cracked and both flecked with blood. The eyes behind them are open, glassy, and his body is slumped against a wall, a bleeding hole in his chest. His face grows cold, his heart racing as he stares at his own corpse, his fingertips and palms tingling. He feels numb elsewhere, watching as Eddie comes running, skidding on his knees and taking his dead body's face in his hands and murmuring something Richie can't hear. He's certain the corpse can't hear it, but he's not certain Eddie knows it's a corpse._

_"Eddie." Bev, her voice choked by tears._

_Eddie whirls to look at her. "What?" he snaps._

_Richie wants to reach out to Bev as a thick tear rolls down her filthy cheek, but he doesn't. He is pretty sure she wouldn't feel it, anyway._

_"Honey, he's dead," she says, and the impatient line of Eddie's mouth falls, pulls down at the edges. He's quiet for a moment, his eyes looking through her, before turning back to the corpse. Richie swallows down the ill feeling as Eddie pulls it into his arms his shoulders shaking visibly._

_"Wake up," he says, his voice cracking at the end. His fingers thread into the curls on the back of the corpse's head. "Wake up, Richie, come on."_

_Richie closes his eyes, looks away, squeezes them more tightly shut when Eddie's sobs echo in the high ceilings of the cistern. He starts babbling, and the others begin to shout over him, until it all echoes in a cacophony that Richie can barely stand, makes him want to peel off his skin and crawl into a hole in the ground until there is neough dirt over his head that he can't hear anything, anyone, ever again-_

"Richie!"

_Richie's eyes snap wide, and his mouth falls open when he finds Eddie holding onto his biceps, their gazes locked. A glance over Eddie's shoulder - the corpse is still there, staring straight ahead, dried blood on it's chin. Eddie shakes him once, twice, and Richie meets his eyes again, jaw still hanging._

"Wake up!" _Eddie is saying again, his voice loud and shaking and begging, fingertips digging into his shoulders._ "Wake up, Rich, come back! Come back, Richie, baby!"

_Richie's mouth works, he wants to speak, but he can't find words. Before he can try again, Eddie is kissing him, his mouth a soft warmth that is stark against the numbness. He feels as if he has been plucked from somewhere up in the air, gently pulled back down to Earth, as he leans into the comfort._

His eyelids flutter open, and he is in the cistern again. His corpse is no longer over Eddie's shoulder, but Eddie's lips are still warm on his, even through wet grime that he tries not to think about too hard. Eddie pulls back, looking up at him, and his knees buckle so bad Richie has to catch him.

"Fuck, there you are, baby," Eddie breathes, grabbing Richie's cheeks in both hands and pressing their foreheads together almost painfully. "Fucking Christ, okay. Okay."

"Here I am," Richie says, dazed. "The fuck happened?"

"Deadlights. We have to get the fuck out of here."

Richie looks around, suddenly feeling like an ant about to squished unawares. "Where the fuck is It?"

"We killed It," Mike tells him, his eyes flitting around the cistern - Richie only now realizes that the ground beneath their feet seems to be vibrating. "We need to get out of here. Now."

Eddie nods, looking up, and Richie looks up too as he realizes that the ceiling appears to be caving in. "Well, that's not good."

Eddie snorts. "Run, dipshit!" he says, and takes Richie's hand.

They run.

* * *

"You guys know this water is disgusting, right? We're not actually getting clean."

"You would've preferred walking around with piss and shit all over you, Eds?"

Richie snickers as Eddie splashes him, shaking the water out of his eyes and hair. It's odd to be back in the quarry, now. For one, there's a much higher chance they'll be arrested than there was when they were kids. There had been a fence, he thinks with amusement. A sign, warning dumb kids not to believe they were invincible. Because what else was invincibility, but the super power of children? If every kid believed they could do anything, nothing in the world could stand in their way. 

"I would commit atrocities for a shower, right now," says Bev, rinsing blood from her hair with an interesting mixture of relief and distaste. "Like, actual crimes."

"Technically we're committing one right now," Eddie huffs, though the corner of his mouth is crinkled up. Richie leans over and kisses the acordion smile, because he can and he loves him so fucking much it feels like the very first time he said it out loud. Not when they were in college, not what he thought was the first time. When he was a fourteen year old idiot with a trash mouth and bug-eyed glasses, confessing his big gay love for his best friend Eddie to his own reflection, his voice a hushed whisper even in the privacy of his own bedroom. It makes his heart race, and his stomach do cartwheels, and he gets the strangest urge to hug himself. 

He hugs Eddie, instead. Eddie pulls him closer.


End file.
